


Write Your Injuries In The Dust

by ninawritesastory



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton is a certified Human Mess, Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, F/M, M/M, Magical Shenanigans, Memory Loss/Amnesia, Questionable shadow government, Slow Burn, Thomas Jefferson Being an Asshole, Witches Spells and Curses Oh My, Witches being bitches, aesthetically inconsistent verb tenses, especially American witches, incredibly vague Harry Potter references, literally no one in this has their shit together, relationship rebuilding, vague yet oddly specific descriptions of magic, witches have really weird social structures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-16 17:51:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11833917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninawritesastory/pseuds/ninawritesastory
Summary: The curse has taken everything from him. His name, his life, his legacy, everything. And to add insult to injury, he had five years before the last ties to his sanity snapped. What else was there left to do but drink himself into oblivion?Thomas Jefferson is constantly bothered by the strangest sense that he's forgotten something. Something important. And yet, he can't find a single hint as to what it is he's apparently forgotten.The Witches' Council is just trying to make it through this particular mess without inciting a rebellion.A fan sequel to "As Glory Turns To Dust" by roseclipping.





	1. This Isn't Foggy Bottom, So What Gives?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roseclipping](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseclipping/gifts).



> This is going to be more or less a direct sequel to roseclipping's "As Glory Turns To Dust." 
> 
> The narrators for this mess are going to be two OCs, but that's mainly because I wasn't too keen on hunting down obscure historical figures to shove into the roles of witches at least 94% done with their current leadership. Most of the worldbuilding for this story's witching society is taken from old headcanons I had about the American Wizarding population before J.K.R. decided to unleash that steaming heap of unchecked colonialism that is her take on witches and wizards in America.
> 
> That being said, I hope you enjoy this!

It’s a lot like looking at someone through a fogbank. 

Olivia’s head tips to the left ever-so-slightly as she tries to get a handle on what she’s seeing. It’s definitely a curse of some fashion---spells that reap positive effects tend to have a shiny appearance around the effected person---but what sort is something she can’t quite pinpoint just from looking at it. It’s not the first time she’s seen a curse in action; there are millions of active witches in the United States alone, and not all of them stick to ‘good’ magic. 

The fog’s not actively malicious, taking an eerie, shimmering gray as opposed to the swirling, angry black more malevolent curses tend towards. A curse cast in anger, but momentary anger. The witch who cast it probably already forgot about it. Which was irritating in its own right, since Olivia had been actively lobbying the Witches’ Congress to crack down on curses cast in moments of anger. A witch who wouldn’t remember casting a life-wrecking spell shouldn’t be allowed to walk away scott-free for her thoughtlessness.

The decision to talk to the poor man comes almost as suddenly as the realization that he’s cursed. With a deep breath to steel herself, Olivia Marr marches up to him and introduces herself. 

“Hello, I’m Olivia Marr! I’m part of the Wisconsin delegation.”

“Thomas Jefferson,” the man replies with a grin that’s only a hair shy of off-putting. “Virginia.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

They’re housed in the same campus dorm for the conference’s duration, which gives Olivia more of a chance to examine the fogbank around him. He’s completely unaware of it---not magic sensitive, then, but it’s rare to meet fellow witches involved in non-witch politics---but she’s starting to catch a pattern. 

His memories are faulty. 

Normally, it wouldn’t be much of an issue (no one really has that good a memory, and it’s not weird to get dates mixed up), but he’s messing up some key things. Verifiable things. She’s never tracked Thomas Jefferson, but their politics have been similar enough that she’s heard his name or someone related to him often enough. It’s when the conversation drifts to a conference they both attended last year. He’d been gushing over his boyfriend ever since he found out she was one of the gay-friendly attendees. It was adorable, honestly. 

But now?

Thomas swore he’d never been in a relationship. 

Olivia even talked to the boyfriend when Thomas drunk dialed him. 

It takes an hour phone call with four different aunts to locate the damn curse (not to mention more than a couple odd looks from her roommates), and when they finally find it, it’s a dozy. Erasing one’s legacy, removing them from every memory and destroying every tangible proof of their existence. It’s a particularly nasty curse, which only irritates Olivia further. The Congress is never going to hear the end of this one. 

A four or five year relationship destroyed by a single curse. The realistic part of her is certain the poor boyfriend is probably dead or on the streets somewhere, wishing he was dead. But she has no idea how to find him or contact him. All of that knowledge is probably locked up in Thomas Jefferson’s curse-addled brain. 

Which leads to another interesting question: how far does the curse reach? It would be easy to examine the extent if she knew what she was looking for, but she never saw the boyfriend’s face or even heard his name. Or had she? If the curse was pervasive enough that it could warp a witch’s perspective, then that was another ballgame entirely. That took a lot of magic, and someone with that much power couldn’t be allowed to go unchecked. 

With a groan, Olivia flops onto her bed, fishes out her notebook, and starts planning. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Empaths are perhaps the most peculiar of all witches. Most of them only recognized two choices in life: either build up your walls to keep yourself sane or succumb to the emotions of everyone around you until you forget where their emotions end and yours begin. Justine Kipps had decided upon a third option, which definitely involved walls but ones with gates. 

Bars were good practice ranges. The clientele ranged from friends having a good time to pathetic bastards drowning themselves in booze to forget about the downswings of their equally pathetic lives. A few hours seated in a relatively quiet corner usually assaulted her mental shields hard enough to leave her exhausted, but with a new sense of how much she could handle. 

There was something different about the crowd. A pervasive fog seemed to permeate the establishment---and not the usually haze of cigarette smoke and noise pollution, either. It smells acrid, as though someone had decided to light a tire patch on fire nearby. Her eyes narrowed, skimming the bar to find the source. She knew a curse when she saw it, and the smoke was thick enough that its origin was going to either be the castor the recipient. 

A couple of guys attempted to hit on her, variations of “Hey, baby” barely heard through the building roar of intense magic. There was a hand on her waist, and Justine barely had enough attention left to shove it away as she continued weaving through the crowd. She could feel the telltale bubbling of a building panic attack in her chest; she needed to find the eye of the storm and she needed to find it now. Empaths could be easily impacted by the sorts of curses other witches could shrug off like raindrops, but the impact was always messy. 

She caught sight of a hunched over figure at a table, the sort she’d normally pick for her usual exercise. The fog moved around him like a storm, and she quickened her pace. The assault became worse the closer she got, until at last she broke past the curse’s barrier. She’d entered the eye of the storm at last. The pressure melted away and left her with only a headache. So much for a few drinks. 

The man looks like an absolute wreck: dark hair stringy and unkempt, clothing disheveled, he reeked of booze. He’d been there awhile. Was probably already thoroughly smashed. She shook the lingering fog from her head and walked up to the table. 

“You look like you’ve had enough,” she commented, her voice soft as she pulled the half-finished mug away. 

“No haven’t,” he muttered, but made no attempt to retrieve the stolen drink. 

She occupied an empty chair and kept a hand on him, letting his drunkenness bled into her a bit. At the very least, she could lessen the headache he’d wake up with. 

“Are you okay?”

The man snorted. “Fuck im not,” he slurred, head buried in his hands. “‘E forgot. Like ‘em all. Thoug---thought ‘e cou’d fuckin’ make it.”

Pain bled through, and Justine felt her eyes burn from more than the cigarette smoke. He wasn’t the caster, she realized. Whatever curse he’d gotten placed on him, it had apparently broken him. Not for the first time, she wondered if the AIS witches were right; if their instance on tighter regulation wasn’t the right way to go. 

“So you have a place to stay?”

He let out a desperate laugh. “Fuck no. Got nothin’ lef’. No frien’s, no family, no job. Fuckin’ everyone…can’ r’member my fuckin’ name.”

“What’s your name?”

“Alexander Hamilton.”

She repeated it, and nodded. A curse to make everyone forget him, his name, and Lord and Lady only knew what else. That was a pretty tall order. 

“Get up,” she ordered, helping him out of his seat. “I’m taking you back to my place. You can sleep this off, re-hydrate, and we can figure out where you go from here. Sound good?”

“Don’ mat’er,” Alexander muttered, leaning against her as she slung his arm over her shoulders. “You gonna forget it. Don’ fuckin’ matter.”

She didn’t correct him, more focused on moving through the crowded bar. Her head ached from all the alcohol she didn’t drink; no amount of water or painkillers would help her until Alexander’s system managed to process all the alcohol he’d swigged into it. He was surprisingly light against her, a bit too thin pressed to her side. How long had he been fighting the curse, and what exactly had been his breaking point? 

The cool night air was a balm on her heated flesh as she all but dragged him to her car. He was still conscious, but it was a near thing. He’d probably pass out on the ride back to her complex, and she’d probably have to carry him up to her apartment. 

A partly-frantic dig for her keys and the door unlocked, giving her the opening to shove him into her passenger seat. Unsurprisingly, he was pretty much unconscious by the time his ass hit the seat. She reached over him and fastened the seat belt, taking a glance at his face. Somehow…it seemed familiar. The bags under his eyes were larger, but she had the distinct feeling she’d seen him before.

Justine shoved the thought to the side and took her place in the driver’s seat. The engine flared to life and she quickly threw it into reverse. Her complex was located in downtown Roslyn, a few blocks from the most direct subway line into D.C. It was pricey, but it served her purposes well. Her salary from the Smithsonian was enough to cover it, so she really didn’t care too much. The real robbery was her monthly internet bill. 

Thanking whatever gods were responsible for the elevator from the parking lot to most of the complex’s floor, Justine pulled the unconscious drunk onto her back in the most power-effective hold she knew. It was a trick, especially in heels, but a brief stint in the military didn’t leave her with nothing. 

A muttered unlocking spell and her door swung open, allowing her entry. She managed to kick it closed, barely breaking her stride as she carted her unexpected house guest down to her bedroom. She could handle the couch for a night; wouldn’t be the first time. The only clothing she divests him off are his shoes; while jeans can’t be too comfortable, she’d rather not strip a stranger down to his underwear. One night stands have never really been her style. 

Instead of wresting him under the covers, Justine just threw a blanket over him. Grabbing a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, she made her way back to the living room. 

They could think of something in the morning.


	2. The Awkward Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander has no idea how to react to his host. Olivia has no idea where to start reversing the damage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I was down in St. Louis for about half the week in order to catch the eclipse (which was AWESOME, by the way; I even got some great pictures of it by using a pair of enlarged solar glasses as a makeshift solar lens), which means this is probably going to be a relatively plotless chapter. 
> 
> Next chapter should prove a bit more exciting, since my last day at work is coming up and I'll have a week off before I have to start my new position. (And my last semester of school!) Anyway, I hope this chapter satisfies long enough for me to crank out the next one. Enjoy!

Alexander came to in a room that was decidedly not the bar he remembered from the night before. The mattress was firm, boarding just shy of hard, but the nest of blankets were soft. They smelled like flowery, fresh detergent. He buried his nose in the soft wool of one of the colorful knit blankets, breathing in the scent. The window was open, allowing a breeze to come in to the room. Someone outside must have just cut their grass, cause Alexander could smell it.

He froze as he heard the door open. Whoever his host was, they were making an effort not to wake him. Their footsteps were quiet on the carpeted floor, but he could feel when they stopped by the bedside. He heard the soft click of a glass and the muffled rattle of a pill bottle hitting the surface of the bedside table. The smell of food cooking drifted in along with them, and the door closed a bit louder than his host probably intended.

With a groan, Alexander disentangled himself from the blankets. He was still fully clothed, and a wayward sniff confirmed that he reeked. He winced, but pulled himself up off the mattress---apparently, his host either couldn’t afford a bedframe or preferred to have her bed directly on the ground, because the floor was a lot closer than he was expecting. There was a note left on the table, written in the handwriting of someone who usually wrote in cursive but decided to forgo it for once.

_Hey, I figured you’re gonna have a massive headache when you wake up. Take no more than three of these and drink the ENTIRE glass of water. I managed to find a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that should fit you; change into them and I’ll put your clothes through the wash. I’m making breakfast. Come eat, then go take a shower._

_\- Justine_

He took the pills without a second thought, chugging the water until he coughed. The effect was almost instantaneous; while his headache didn’t disappear, it dramatically reduced itself to a dull throb in the back of his head. The water left him more parched than quenched, and Alexander got up to go get more---pausing only at the last second before remembering one of the orders given him in the note. He grabbed the offered clothing. The sweatpants were a dark blue, the left leg bearing a bronze Ravenclaw crest. They probably weren’t actual sweatpants, since they didn’t have elastic cinching the ends of each leg to his ankles. Instead, they hung loose. Still, they were pretty comfortable. The shirt was a loose linen, light pink thing with a subtly styled scoop neck. But it fit him, which was about all he could honestly ask for at this point.

As soon as Alexander opened the door, the smell of eggs hit him. His stomach churned at the prospect of food; whether out of hunger or revulsion, he couldn’t guess. First priority: more water. Since his host apparently still remembered him (which was too weird to linger on), Alexander tentatively made his way down the hall. It was clean and meticulously organized; a few framed pictures hung on the way. Most of them were of a family full of a smiles, poses ranging from formal portraits to silly snapshots taken on what were probably family trips. Some were of a bunch of people who were probably friends of Justine’s.

The walls were painted a soft, deep blue, too tempered to be vivid but no where near pastel. It seemed to speak of some sort of maturity, far more so than a fucking paint color should have any right to. When the hall gave way to the living room and the kitchen, Alexander caught sight of a mural painted against the blue. It was a highly detailed depiction of mountains, dull green vegetation set against the sandy gray of mountain rock. He could make out ruins in the background, settled on a shaved off mountain top.

“Like it?”

He jumped, whirling around to find his host smiling, a towel thrown over her shoulder.

“My sister painted it,” she added, gesturing back to the mural. “It’s from the summer we hiked the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. Apparently the blue of my walls ‘inspired’ her to add some color to them.”

“It’s nice,” Alexander managed, still not quite sure how much this Justine actually remembered.

“The eggs are almost done. You’re not vegan, are you?”

He shook his head.

“Allergic to anything?”

“Uh…not that I know of.”

“Well that makes it easier,” Justine said with a grin. “Would you like some toast?”

He shook his head, stepping into the kitchen and dining area. Unlike the rest of the apartment, she’d painted this room a decent shade of yellow and accented it with a lighter, more vibrant green. The cabinets were painted a brilliant white, and delicate green accents were painted along the edges.

“Don’t laugh, but I did the kitchen to look like my mom’s,” she commented, pulling plates out of one of the cabinets. “Yellow’s always helped my appetite.”

“How can you remember me,” he blurted out, unable to take the pressure any longer.

Justine paused in the midst of setting down a plate.

“I,” she began, pausing as though she were unsure of how to continue. “Well.” She sighed. “Curses and hexes tend not to affect other witches, unless they’re designed to.”

Alexander froze, his heart plummeting into some unfathomable depth. Another fucking witch. He took a step back. Witches were nothing but trouble. What the hell would _this_  one do to him? Fuck, what else did he have left to lose? His job, his friends, his home, Eliza, his identity, _Thomas_ \---he had nothing left. The fear ebbed away and left him numb. It didn’t matter if Justine was a witch. There was nothing left to him that he valued. What could she possibly take away?

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Justine apologized, eyes wide in understanding. “I know whoever put that curse on you couldn’t have been a good experience, but I promise you, witches like her are the minority.”

He thought back to the ibuprofen and the water. Had she put a spell on those, one to make his headache go away?

“What’d you do to the pills?”

“Nothing,” she insisted. “Any spellwork on medications could mess with their intended purposes. The only spell I cast this morning was in the water. It’s an extra strength pain relief agent, meant to work only for as long as it takes the ibuprofen to work. You drank a __lot__  last night.”

“You swear to that?”

Justine crossed her heart. “I swear, on my honor as a witch, that I will do nothing to harm you. And that’s a witch’s promise.”

Back in the witch’s room, settled into a lovingly carved lilac wood box, Justine’s favorite wand glowed at her vow.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Did you get any sleep last night,” are the first words out of Jefferson’s mouth when Olivia drags herself into the main conference room.

“Who needs sleep when you have espresso,” she mutters, collapsing into an available set. 

Something about her comment tugs at Thomas, some memory he can barely retrieve. Someone else once said something like that to him, didn't they? A headache begins to build behind his eyes, and he pinches the bridge of his nose in an effort to stall it. The headaches are becoming alarmingly frequent, springing up without warning and sometimes leaving him incapable of anything beyond curling up in his bed and trying not to cry from the pain. He can't afford to let this headache get that bad, not this week, and so he shoves the niggling thought away, ignores it as firmly as he can. Instead, he returns his attention entirely to Olivia Marr.

Despite the obvious sleep deprivation, Olivia still looks incredibly put together: her pencil skirt is pressed, her leggings immaculate, and her blouse vibrant and clean under her suit jacket. Even her hair was soft and brushed. If not for the bags under her eyes, her slouch, and the extra large coffee in her grip, she might look well-rested.

“My boss dumped another load of case files on me last night,” she explains after a beat, her tone slightly apologetic. “I’ve been up all night going over the ins and outs of the newly proposed health care bill. It’s a godforsaken mess.”

It’s a lie, of course; Senator Morgan isn’t a complete slave driver, and promised to refrain from blowing up her inbox until after she returns from the conference. But the lie is necessary, since the last thing she wants to do is out herself as a witch to someone like Thomas Jefferson. (Or anyone in politics, since Olivia trusts the vast majority of her colleagues as deeply as she would trust a starving and injured animal not to lash out.)

“That bill’s at least six hundred pages,” Jefferson retorts.

“Six-hundred-and-ninety-eight pages,” she corrects. “Plus thirty pages of annotations and footnotes. It’s better than that thousand-page monstrosity they passed back in 2012.”

“The one no one actually read?”

“That would be it,” she confirms with a small groan, pulling out her binder and preparing to take notes in a last-ditch effort to keep herself awake.

It’s only the first full day of the conference, which means they have another four days before they have to split. Which additionally means that if she stands a chance at figuring out the extent and content of the spell currently messing around with Jefferson’s mind (is that why he seemed so off-putting, or was he a natural-born asshole, much like most other men in politics?), she has to work quickly. She pulls out a small glass vial from her camera bag and sneaks a good dose of it into her coffee. If the caffeine won’t help her, the pick-me-up powder will.

The first speaker is introduced with the usual fanfare; Olivia only knows her in passing. She’s a pro-life advocate, the founder of several different organizations dedicated to the pro-life movement. Olivia doesn’t listen too closely. While her personal values tend towards pro-life, politically and legally speaking, Olivia has a history of tending towards more pro-choice legislation.

Jefferson seems even more disinterested in the speech than her, and while she at least makes sure to have some semblance of attention in her expression, Jefferson has been toying with the small black plastic straw he grabbed from the coffee station in the back of the room.

In between the figures from the presentation, Olivia brainstorms ways to counteract the spell’s effects. If only she had something from Thomas’s boyfriend, some sort of token she could use to anchor his mind and give his brain the chance to fight back against the spell. Magic’s all well and good, but even magic is bound by certain laws. And speaking of laws…

_I’m gonna have to appeal to the Council about seeing this through_ , the realization hits her, worsening her headache with its implications.

Flipping to a clean sheet of paper, she begins plotting what to say.


End file.
